The aged Mr. Brotherhood was bouncing in his seat. He was in an ecstasy. “Oh, pretty, sir! Again! Oh, well played, indeed, sir!” His white whiskers fluttered like flags. “Why on earth, Mr. Tallboy,” he asked, severely, “did you send this man in ninth? He’s a cricketer. He’s the only cricketer among the whole damned lot of you. Oh, well placed!” as the ball skimmed neatly between two agitated fielders who nearly knocked their heads together in the effort to retrieve it. “Look at that! I’m always telling these lads that placing is nine-tenths of the game. This man knows it. Who is he?”
“He’s a new member of the staff,” said Tallboy, “he’s a public-school man and he said he’d done a good deal of country-house cricket, but I hadn’t an idea he could play like that. Great Scott!” He paused to applaud a particularly elegant cut. “I never saw anything like it.”
“Didn’t you?” said the old gentleman with asperity. “Well, now, I’ve been watching cricket, man and boy, for sixty years, and I’ve seen something very like it. Let me see, now. Before the War, that would be. Dear, dear-I sometimes think my memory for names isn’t what it was, but I fancy that in the Varsity match of 1910, or it might be 1911-no, not 1910, that was the year in which-”
His tinkling voice was drowned in a yell as the 170 appeared on the score-board.
“One more to win!” gasped Miss Rossiter. “Oh!” For at that moment, Mr. Haagedorn, left for an unfortunate moment to face the bowling, succumbed to a really nasty and almost unplayable ball which curled round his feet like a playful kitten and skittled his leg-stump.
Mr. Haagedorn came back almost in tears, and Mr. Wedderburn, quivering with nervousness, strode forward into the breach. He had nothing to do but to survive four balls and then, except for a miracle, the game was won. The first ball rose temptingly, a little short; he stepped out, missed it, and scuttled back to his crease only just in time. “Oh, be careful! Be careful!” moaned Miss Rossiter, and old Mr. Brotherhood swore. The next ball, Mr. Wedderburn contrived to poke a little way down the pitch. He wiped his forehead. The next was a spinner and, in trying to block it, he tipped it almost perpendicularly into the air. For a moment that seemed like hours the spectators saw the spinning ball-the outstretched hand-then the ball dropped, missed by a hair.
“I’m going to scream,” announced Mrs. Johnson to nobody in particular. Mr. Wedderburn, now thoroughly unnerved, wiped his forehead again. Fortunately, the bowler was also unnerved. The ball slipped in his sweating fingers and went down short and rather wide.
“Leave it alone! Leave it alone!” shrieked Mr. Brotherhood, hammering with his stick. “Leave it alone, you numbskull! You imbecile! You-”
Mr. Wedderburn, who had lost his head completely, stepped across to it, raised his bat, made a wild swipe, which missed its object altogether, heard the smack of the leather as the ball went into the wicket-keeper’s gloves, and did the only possible thing. He hurled himself bodily back and sat down on the crease, and as he fell he heard the snick of the flying bails.
“How’s that?”
“Not out.”
“The nincompoop! The fat-headed, thick-witted booby!” yelled Mr. Brotherhood. He danced with fury. “Might have thrown the match away! Thrown it away! That man’s a fool. I say he’s a fool. He’s a fool, I tell you.”
“Well, it’s all right, Mr. Brotherhood,” said Mr. Hankin, soothingly. “At least, it’s all wrong for your side, I’m afraid.”
“Our side be damned,” ejaculated Mr. Brotherhood. “I’m here to see cricket played, not tiddlywinks. I don’t care who wins or who loses, sir, provided they play the game. Now, then!”
With five minutes to go, Wimsey watched the first ball of the over come skimming down towards him. It was a beauty. It was jam. He smote it as Saul smote the Philistines. It soared away in a splendid parabola, struck the pavilion roof with a noise like the crack of doom, rattled down the galvanized iron roofing, bounced into the enclosure where the scorers were sitting and broke a bottle of lemonade. The match was won.
Mr. Bredon, lolloping back to the pavilion at 6.30 with 83 runs to his credit, found himself caught and cornered by the ancient Mr. Brotherhood.
“Beautifully played, sir, beautifully played indeed,” said the old gentleman. “Pardon me-the name has just come to my recollection. Aren’t you Wimsey of Balliol?”
Wimsey saw Tallboy, who was just ahead of them, falter in his stride and look round, with a face like death. He shook his head.
“My name’s Bredon,” he said.
“Bredon?” Mr. Brotherhood was plainly puzzled. “Bredon? I don’t remember ever hearing the name. But didn’t I see you play for Oxford in 1911? You have a late cut which is exceedingly characteristic, and I could have taken my oath that the last time I saw you play it was at Lords in 1911, when you made 112. But I thought the name was Wimsey-Peter Wimsey of Balliol-Lord Peter Wimsey-and, now I come to think of it-”
At this very awkward moment an interruption occurred. Two men in police uniform were seen coming across the field, led by another man in mufti. They pushed their way through the crowd of cricketers and guests, and advanced upon the little group by the pavilion fence. One of the uniformed men touched Lord Peter on the arm.
“Are you Mr. Death Bredon?”
“I am,” said Wimsey, in some astonishment.
“Then you’ll have to come along of us. You’re wanted on a charge of murder, and it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”
“Murder?” ejaculated Wimsey. The policeman had spoken in unnecessarily loud and penetrating tones, and the whole crowd had frozen into fascinated attention. “Whose murder?”
“The murder of Miss Dian de Momerie.”
“Good God!” said Wimsey. He looked round and saw that the man in mufti was Chief-Inspector. Parker, who gave a nod of confirmation.
“All right,” said Wimsey. “I’ll come with you, but I don’t know a thing about it. You’d better come with me while I change.”
He walked away between the two officers. Mr. Brotherhood detained Parker as he was about to follow them.
“You say that man’s called Bredon?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Parker, with emphasis. “Bredon is his name. Mister Death Bredon.”
“And you want him for murder?”
“For murder of a young woman, sir. Very brutal business.”
“Well,” said the old gentleman, “you surprise me. Are you sure you’ve got the right man?”
“Dead sure, sir. Well known to the police.”
Mr. Brotherhood shook his head.
“Well,” he said again, “his name may be Bredon. But he’s innocent. Innocent as day, my good fellow. Did you see him play? He’s a damned fine cricketer and he’d no more commit a murder than I would.”
“That’s as may be, sir,” said Inspector Parker, stolidly.
“Just fancy that!” exclaimed Miss Rossiter. “I always knew there was something. Murder! Only think! We might all have had our throats cut! What do you think, Miss Meteyard? Were you surprised?”
“Yes, I was,” said Miss Meteyard. “I was never so surprised in my life. Never!”
Chapter XIX. Duplicate Appearances of a Notorious Personality
“It’s a fact, old man,” said Parker, as the police-car sped Londonwards. “Dian de Momerie was found this morning with her throat cut in a wood near Maidenhead. Beside the body was a penny whistle and a few yards away there was a black mask caught on a bramble bush, as if some one had flung it away in a hurry. Inquiry among her friends elicited the fact that she had been going about at night with a masked harlequin, one Bredon by name. Strong suspicion was accordingly directed against the said Mr. Bredon, and Scotland Yard, acting with commendable promptitude, tracked the gentleman down to Romford and secured his person. Accused, when charged, replied-”